Weekend Adventures of Two Apprentice Magicians
by Chocoholic Bec
Summary: Ongoing project, Peter/Charmain - implied in some, definite in others. Rated T for most of the chapters, but the first one may be more M. Basically, what Peter and Charmain get up to on weekends. No snogging, no swearing, no sex. :D
1. Chapter One

Author's Note: This is going to be an ongoing project. I'll update... uh, whenever I remember. This chapter should probably be rated somewhere between T and M, but I've rated it T for the later chapters. However, this chapter is probably more... um... _suggestive _than the others. Let me know if I should change the rating!

Reviews are love, people. :D

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Chapter One

In Which Charmain Makes an Embarrassing Discovery

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"PE-_TER_!" shrieked Charmain into the hallway.

Peter winced. He had been blamelessly flipping through _Res Magica _(_Volume 28: Cosmic Oneiromancy_), and when Charmain had that particular sound in her voice, it meant that the two of them were in for a huge fight.

Honestly, he wasn't sure that he minded. He rather enjoyed his quarrels with her, much like a dog enjoys a game of tug-of-war. He reminded himself to play a game with Waif when she'd had her puppies. He recalled that he had to go to the castle tomorrow – when living there permanently had proved to be too difficult, the King and Wizard Norland had held a conference and decided that he should live with Wizard Norland and go to the castle every weekday for 'prince training'.

He turned back to his book.

"PE-_TER_!" came again, followed by, "If you don't get in here _right now_, I will personally tear your _guts_ out and tie them in a bow around your head!"

He sighed and put _Cosmic Oneiromancy _down. "I'm _COMING_, Charmain!"

"Hmph!" said Charmain.

He scurried out of the study, looked at his hands – green for left, that's right – and stalked along the corridor, attempting to get himself into the right frame of mind for one of their verbal spurs.

Charmain was standing in the third bedroom along, gripping some sort of scroll tightly.

"What are you doing in-?" started Peter, but Charmain was quicker – and louder.

"What is this _filth_?" she screeched, shoving the scroll at him. "And _why_ was it under my _mattress_?"

Peter unrolled it. It wasn't a scroll; it was the _Sexy Sorceresses_ magazine that one of his Montalbino friends had bought for him. 'If you're going to be an apprentice wizard,' James had written in the accompanying letter, 'you'd better have something to amuse you!'

The front cover was of a young, fair-haired woman, one hand holding a spell book in front of her breasts, which were too large to be completely covered. Her stomach was bare, and her other hand was undoing the string of her drawers. The cover had '_Hot or Not? Strangia's Wildest Witches!_' emblazoned across the bottom, and '_Summertime Special: Enchanting Enchantresses!_' splashed across the side. Realising what Charmain must be thinking, Peter flushed a deep, dark red.

It took Peter about ten seconds to take in the cover, look at Charmain scowling at him, and realise he had to come up with an answer. "It's not mine," he finally said.

Charmain, wordlessly, flicked open the front cover (revealing an advert for 'foolproof contraceptive spells') and pointed at his name, written neatly in the top corner.

Peter muttered a curse word.

"Wash your mouth out with soap!" spat Charmain.

"Look, it really isn't mine!" he insisted. "Well, it is, but I… I don't _use _it or anything. I mean, um, _read _it."

Charmain looked at him, leaned over, and flipped the pages to somewhere in the middle, where there was a bookmark – and, embarrassingly, a suspicious stain on the page.

Peter's stomach flipped over.

Charmain pushed up her glasses and glared at him.

"It really isn't what it looks like," he said. "It's just tea. I knocked it onto the page."

He neglected to mention what he had been doing when he'd knocked over the tea.

He looked down at the page again. Honestly, she was the most beautiful _Enchanting Enchantress _in the book. She was slender and small-breasted, with loose, long red hair and green eyes. Unlike the other women in the magazine, she didn't have her chest thrust out and head thrown back. Instead, she stood with her hands crossed over her breasts, with a small smile on her face like she knew something he didn't. She was even wearing a petticoat, albeit one that clung to her legs rather suggestively.

He fancied that she looked a little like Charmain.

He decided to try a different tack, as the 'it's-not-mine' defence had not worked out very well. He threw the magazine down on his bed.

"Well, _what _were you doing in _my _room, anyway? You know perfectly well you're not meant to be in here. I don't go into your room, you don't go into mine, and it's as simple as that."

(Admittedly, he _had _been in her room once without her permission, while she was helping the King in the library. It wasn't snooping, he had told himself firmly, it was searching. He'd been looking for _Memoirs of an Exorcist_. He knew it was probably in the study, but he decided he had better look in Charmain's room first, as she liked books and had possibly taken it to her room. Admittedly, he knew it most likely wasn't in the drawer with her undergarments in it, but how was _he _to know that's where she stored them? He had, however, definitely been embarrassed when he had worked out what the drawer marked _Charmain's Things!!! Do Not Open!!!_ contained, but he reasoned that such a name was sure to inspire curiosity.

Fortunately, he actually did find _Memoirs of an Exorcist_ on her bedside table, under _The Twelve-Branched Wand_ and on top of a secret stash of sweets. He had quickly taken it and walked to his own room.)

Charmain glared at him. "_This_ is_ my_ room! Just look at it!"

Peter glowered at her and flung open the cupboard door. There, hanging neatly, was his green tweed suit, along with a pair of shoes and a rather fluffy cough-drop that had fallen out of his pocket. "Not to mention," he said huffily, "that your room is at _least _twice this messy."

Charmain looked lost for words. "Well, it _looks _like my room," she said unhelpfully.

Peter exploded. "Of course it bloody looks like your room! All the rooms in this corridor – and I think there are at _least_ a hundred – look the same! What gets me is that how you didn't know this _wasn't _your room!" He felt privately smug. He was on a roll with this argument. "It's not got any of your things in it, and it has lots of _mine_! Didn't you see my bed? It has my pyjamas on it!" This was true. His bed was messily made, and his stripy pyjama leg was hanging down the side, looking rather forlorn. "And – and this!" He picked up an old sock lying on the floor. "It's not like any of _your _socks, I should think!"

Charmain was going redder and redder.

"And this book!" he yelled, picking up _Memoirs of an Exorcist_ and waving it about. "It's not in _your _room, it's in _mine_!"

Peter continued, "Anyway, why would I be such a fool as to put a magazine like _that _under _your _mattress? I'm not a _complete _idiot, you know."

Oops. He'd just about admitted that the magazine belonged to him.

"You're not? Oh, _that's _news to me," spat Charmain, only seeming to hear the last sentence. "You're the biggest idiot _I've _ever met, that's for certain." She scowled up into his face – he was taller than she was now, though not by much. "Anyway, fine, I didn't _actually_ think this was my room. I was snooping. Happy now?"

"Oh, like I hadn't already figured _that _out," Peter said sarcastically. He hadn't, actually; he knew that Charmain could be absent-minded sometimes, and he'd put it down to that.

Something tugged at his memory. "How did you know my name and my bookmark were in that magazine?"

Charmain blushed even darker, if that were possible. "I – was curious," she finally admitted. "I had a look through it." It seemed like her anger had disappeared in the face of her embarrassment. "They're very pretty. Although I don't understand why you marked that red-haired girl. She's not as…" she stopped, and thought for a second, "…as _voluptuous _as the others." She put her hand over her eyes. "I cannot _believe_ we are having this conversation," she whispered.

"Neither can I," Peter confessed. "Anyway, where did _you _find out that boys like that sort of thing, Miss Respectability?" I_ don't like curves so much_, he thought. _I prefer tall and slim, with red hair and greenish eyes and a funny crooked smile that makes my heart go all thumpy_… He noticed Charmain was talking, and he tried to focus on what she was saying.

"…of course my school was completely respectable," she said, rolling her eyes, "but you would not _believe _the unrespectable things that the girls talked about." She giggled suddenly. "Lots of them have older brothers and sisters, see, and when they were at home they would listen to their brothers and sisters talking to their friends. 'Course, I couldn't, but I listened to the other girl's accounts like anything."

"And that's how you found out?" asked Peter.

"Lots of other things too." Charmain smiled slightly. "If my mother had known, she'd have taken me out of there immediately and sent me to a finishing school in Ingary. Although I doubt the girls there would have been any better."

Peter grinned. "The boys at my school were much the same," he admitted. "Although I suppose more of our education was from magazines, and from older brothers actually telling them things."

Charmain nodded. "Although I did find some things in books," she said. "There was a section in the library, although I don't think that they were really meant to be there." Her mouth twitched, as though she was trying not to laugh. "They all had different covers to what was inside. Some of them were a lot like that – what was it, _Wild Witches_?"

"_Sexy Sorceresses_," corrected Peter.

"Yes, that. Well, the pictures inside were like that, but of men." Her lips twitched again. "You don't _really _look like that, do you? I mean, when you were all wet from the rain that day you first got here, your shirt was a bit clingy, but of course I could only see your chest a bit and nothing else-" She fell silent very suddenly and her cheeks went scarlet.

Peter flushed too. Trying to think of something to say, he reached over to _Sexy Sorceresses _and flicked it open to the red-haired girl.

"No more than you look like she does," he said half-jokingly.

Charmain stared at the picture, lips shaking slightly. Quite suddenly, she burst into tears and ran towards the door.

"What's the use?" Peter heard her wailing from her bedroom.

He sat there feeling like he ought to get up and do something, but he didn't move until he heard her sobbing that she would "never, ever be like that, not in a million years!"

He walked awkwardly to her room, still holding the magazine. Charmain was lying across her bed, crying into her pillow.

He patted her shoulder uncomfortably. "Charmain, what's wrong?"

"Oh, go _away_!" she moaned. "Can't you see I want to be alone?"

"I'm not going away 'til you tell me what the matter is," Peter said stubbornly. He had heard that this was the best way to deal with female tantrums, and he wanted to try it out.

"_NO_!" shouted Charmain, half muffled by the pillow.

He sat down next to her, quite calmly, and set the magazine next to him. "Look, I just want to know why you got so upset so suddenly, when you were laughing just a minute before."

She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her face was bright red with crying. "Oh, I don't _know_!" she finally said. "I just – I just wish I looked more like that girl in the magazine." She sniffled loudly. "But it's useless. I'll never be pretty."

"But you're…" Peter began, then stopped and started again. "You're not precisely hideous."

Charmain pushed him, quite hard. "Oh, it's just _like _you to say that, you beast!"

"But that's not a mean thing to say! I just said you _aren't_ ugly!"

She brought her long legs up and hugged them. "Yes, it _is _mean!" A single tear slipped out of her eye and down her cheek. "You're meant to say, "But you _are _pre–" She stopped and blinked, quite viciously.

Peter half pulled her into his lap. "Oh, Charmain," he said quietly. "It's all right."

She stopped trying to hold back tears. She cried into his shoulder, occasionally whispering fragments of sentences. "It's not fair," mostly.

All the while, Peter embraced her, his chin resting on her head, and occasionally saying things like, "It's all right, Charmain, please stop crying."

Eventually she sat up, wiped her eyes, sniffled wetly and said, "I'm all right now." She replaced her glasses on her nose, as they were dangling precariously from one ear.

Peter let go of her quickly. They scuttled to opposite ends of the bed, almost simultaneously. He would have laughed, if he was in a laughing mood.

Charmain hugged her legs again. "It's just, all my life, nobody's ever really _liked_ me. I'm not pretty, I'm not kind, I'm just… clever. I don't even think my own _parents _like me that much." She sighed. "And it hurts. It really does."

Peter reached over and touched the tips of her fingers with his. "I like you," he said softly. "I suppose you aren't exactly kind, but you _are_ nice." _And pretty_, he added in his head. "And lots of other people like you too," he continued hurriedly. "The Wizard Norland, for one. And the Wizard Pendragon and his wife Sophie, and the King and the Princess Hilda. I even think my mother rather likes you, in her way."

"Thanks," Charmain said. She squeezed his hand. "I feel better now."

Peter nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too."

They sat there for a while, each busy with their own thoughts, when Charmain turned to him.

"_Memoirs of an Exorcist was _in my room, I'm sure of it. It was under _The Twelve-Branched Wand_, I think. But it's in your room now." She frowned slightly.

Peter looked away. "Yes," he admitted, "I did snoop in your room once. Just once, though. And I _was _looking for it. It wasn't _my _fault that you don't mark your drawers with their contents. I'd never had looked if you had."

Charmain pointed an accusing finger at him. "I _thought _somebody had been rifling through my undergarments!"

Peter snorted. "I don't know how you worked that out, it was in so much of a mess that you wouldn't have known if I'd taken half your petticoats out. And that _other _drawer–!" He abruptly broke off.

Charmain raised her eyebrows. "The one with 'Do Not Open' written on it?"

"I was curious!" said Peter defensively.

She folded her arms crossly. "That sign was there for a _reason_."

He pouted slightly. "Well, I know that _now_, but I thought it was just sweets or something before I opened it." He turned pink. "Anyway, I don't see why you don't put things like that in the bathroom. It must be easier."

She scowled. "Because _anybody _can look in the bathroom cupboard. _Nobody's _meant to look in my room." She sniffed. "Besides, you probably don't want to know about things like that. _Female _things," she added primly.

"No-o, I suppose I don't," he admitted. "Still, when you live on your own with a _very _forthright witch for your whole life, you get used to it."

"True," she mused. "I didn't know anything until I – you know," she said, embarrassed.

Peter looked at her.

"Reached womanhood," she said with a sigh. "And the worst thing was, I had no idea what was happening! It didn't say anything like it in those library books. Mother just smiled and gave me a pile of those cloth pads and told me to put one in my drawers. I had to ask Laetitia from school when I got there."

"Oh." He stared at her. "You really are direct, aren't you?"

"Only with some people."

And with that, she stood up, pulled Peter off the bed, and hugged him tightly. "Thanks," she whispered in his ear. "Thanks for being such a good friend."

He hugged her back. "That's not a problem," he said awkwardly.

Charmain let him go quite suddenly. "But that's not actually what I wanted to ask you."

Peter blinked. "You mean, you didn't want to know if I'd been nosing around in your room?"

She shook her head. "No. What I really wanted to know is if…"

Charmain leaned forward.  
"…if…"

He could see himself reflected in her yellow-green eyes.

"…if…"

He could smell her scent, old book smell, and rosewater and nutmeg and almonds from the pastries she was always eating, and soap and her hair-wash potion from her bath that morning, and a touch of that rain-scent from when you did magic…

Peter leaned back, half-afraid.

Charmain did as well, and turned her head away.

"…if I could have _Memoirs of an Exorcist _back?"

"Oh," said Peter, half-disappointed. "Yes, of course."

He started to walk to the door, but a cough from Charmain stopped him. He turned around, to see a wicked smile on her face.

"You forgot this," she said, holding out _Sexy Sorceresses_.

He grabbed it, only to see that the pictures had all changed to paintings of dogs – except, oddly enough, the redheaded girl, who was unchanged.

Charmain looked at him innocently.

Peter stared at her.

She smiled sweetly.

"You little _witch_!" he said, half-laughing, half-angry.

"Yes," she said modestly.

He ruffled her hair affectionately. "Honestly, Charmain, I do not know what to do with you."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh? I'm sure I can think of something."

And with that, she dodged past him and ran out of the room, shouting, "Last to the kitchen has to do the laundry for the next week!"

He laughed and followed.


	2. Chapter Two

Author's Note: Second chapter! Do enjoy. Reviews rock!

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Chapter Two

In Which Charmain Has a Swimming Lesson

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"Did I ever mention how much I hate you?" asked Charmain crossly, gingerly holding a bathing costume at arm's length.

"Yes, many times," said Peter, next to her in the dress shop at Market Square. "But you need to learn to swim, and Wizard Noland agrees with me. You're not wriggling out of it." He took the costume from her and held it to the light. "No, don't get a white one. Get something in a darker colour."

"But I _like_ white!" she insisted. "It's ladylike!"

He snorted. "Is it ladylike for your swimming costume to go transparent in the water? If it is, then, by all means, get one in white."

Charmain stuck her nose in the air. "Beast."

Peter attempted to look virtuous, but merely managed to look smug. "It's beastly to try and save you from embarrassment? I do apologise, then, I shan't do it again." He sorted through the rack of costumes. "Here, what about this one?"

The one he had selected was green with bright yellow stripes. Charmain nodded mild approval and stepped into the dressing room. "It's indecent!" she cried, trying it on. "It's far too tight, and the skirt doesn't even cover my knees properly! I absolutely _refuse_ to buy it."

One hour later, the two of them were standing by Wizard Norland's swimming pool. Charmain was sulkily dressed in the green-and-yellow bathing costume, and Peter was similarly attired in red.

Charmain tentatively dipped a toe into the water. "It's cold!" she said. "I can't swim in this! Can't we wait until it's warmer?"

Peter looked at her with utter disgust. "Just like a girl!" He took a few steps back, ran to the edge and leaped in. Charmain was splashed, head-to-toe, with water.

"Oh!" she screamed. "Oh! You- you-" She didn't seem to be able to think of a strong enough insult. "You _idiot_! I'm all wet!"

Peter, treading water, shook his sopping hair out of his face. "That's the idea. I believe that is why you are wearing a bathing costume as opposed to your regular clothes." He grinned at her. "Come on! It feels warmer once you get in. There are steps over there, anyway." He gestured to his left.

Charmain glared at him, then, with the terrified air of an amateur tightrope walker trying to balance on a string above a pit of lions, took a deep breath and stepped forward.

Everything was blue and light and bubbles and a sudden flash of Peter's shocked face. Charmain squeezed her eyes shut. She sank.

Suddenly, she landed on the stone floor of the pool, and somehow managed to sit down. She squinted up. _The sky seems an awfully long way away_, she thought. She closed her eyes again. She didn't know how to get back up. Did she push with her legs like the time she'd flown away from the lubbock? She tried.

She shot backwards about a metre.

Looking up, she could see Peter, as wobbling and blurry as if she was watching him through a piece of old glass. He was swimming towards her.

"Oh, hello Peter," she said, bubbles streaming from her mouth. "You took your time." She attempted to breathe, and swallowed a large amount of water.

He grabbed her, roughly, under the armpits, and dragged her towards the sunlight.

Charmain closed her eyes and flopped, fainting, on his shoulder.

She only came back to herself properly when she was dropped inelegantly on the stones by the pool. Someone – Peter? – rolled her onto her side, and she almost immediately vomited up an enormous amount of water, along with most of her lunch.

"Urrrrrgh! Char-_main_!"

Charmain, opening her eyes, found that she had thrown up onto Peter's neat red bathing costume. She was inordinately pleased with herself.

"You did that on purpose, you little ratbag!"

"No, I didn't," she said. "I wish I had. You almost killed me!" She sat up and glared at him, almost as well as he was glaring at her.

"_I _almost killed you? If I hadn't been there, you would have drowned!"

"If you hadn't been there, I wouldn't have tried to swim in the first place!"

"You call that trying to swim?" Peter said incredulously. "More like trying to kill yourself!"

"Well, I'm sorry!" Charmain said, entirely unapologetically. "I didn't _ask _for swimming lessons!"

"No, but you need them! I lived in the highlands of Montalbino, and even I learned to swim! I won't always be there to save your neck, you know."

"It's not my fault!" shouted Charmain. "I wasn't allowed to learn! It's not – _respectable_!"

"Respectable! Everything has to be respectable with you, doesn't it?"

"It's not _me_, it's my _mother_! You should know what that's like!"

"Well, no, I don't, because _my _mother wanted me to stay _alive_, not die the first time I had to swim!"

"Argh!" said Charmain, entirely tired of this. "I am going to go inside, get changed, and read a book. And if you know what's good for you," she said, glowering at Peter, "you won't try to stop me."

"Fine then, I shan't!" Peter rolled his eyes. "Reading, reading, reading, that's all you do!"

"Better than _some _people," said Charmain daringly. "At least _I _can find my way around without needing strings tied to my hand."

"Oho!" said Peter. "You're just a lazy, vicious little girl who gets her jollies from trying to hurt people and tries to hide behind her upbringing. Well, you - don't - fool - me!"

"I am _not _a little girl!" said Charmain crossly. "I am as old as you are, and don't you forget it!"

"Well, you're acting like one! 'Oh, poor me, my mummy and daddy wouldn't let me go swimming, boo hoo,'" said Peter in a cruelly accurate imitation of Charmain's voice. "Poor diddums!"

Charmain, her righteous indignation fully aroused, shoved him in the pool, gleefully listening to his spluttering. "And _that's _for mimicking me!" She stuck her nose in the air and walked to one of the reclining chairs, retrieving the cheap paperback novel that she had secreted under it. She lay down and flicked the book open, apparently ignoring Peter's colourful swearing (although actually trying to memorise the phrases for later usage).

A splash told her that Peter had gotten out of the pool. He walked towards her, and she tried to bury herself deeper in her book.

"Oh, come on, Charmain," he said, sounding much friendlier. "I know you're not reading that; it's upside-down. Put it down."

Startled, Charmain looked at the book. Indeed, the writing was all the wrong way up, as – when she flipped the book around to look at the cover – were the boy and girl on the front. She slipped the book onto the next chair.

Peter grinned at her, and, ignoring her protests, picked her up bodily and sat her on one of the deeper pool steps.

Charmain squeaked. "Let me go!"

Peter, holding both her wrists in one hand, ignored her. "I should've told you not to jump into the deep end. Now, come on, I should at least teach you how not to drown until someone can rescue you."

Charmain, although obviously cross, actually tried to follow Peter's instructions as to floating and treading water.

About two hours later, Peter seemed to have finally tired of instructing her. He and Charmain were both sitting on the pool steps, talking about their plans for exploring the house. Peter, ranting on how he would get lost even with the map, did not notice how quiet Charmain had become.

"Peter?" said Charmain, interrupting his grumblings on how hard it was to find Wizard Norland's workshop even with strings on all his fingers. "Um, well, thanks."

And with that, she scooped up a handful of water and threw it in his face.

He grinned and splashed her back. "Come on, Charmain, let's go back inside." He stood up and stepped out of the pool, Charmain following. They wrapped themselves in the fluffy white towels, walked through the gateway, and started navigating the labyrinth-like passage back home.


	3. Chapter Three

Author's Note: Sorry... it's very long. :) Read and review, people!

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Chapter Three

Which Is Far Too Full Of Pink

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"Er-hem." Wizard Norland twinkled at Charmain. "Do you mind, my dear?"

Charmain did not look up from her book.

He coughed again.

Charmain still didn't look up.

Very firmly, he took hold of the book and pulled it away from her.

She looked up at him. "Oh! Sorry, Great Uncle William."

He chuckled quietly and sat down next to her. "That's quite all right. Unfortunately, I must go to the Royal Mansion for the day. The King needs my help – something to do with an old book he found, apparently. Can I trust you and Peter not to make any mischief?" He smiled at her. "If it's possible, I would appreciate you moving my armchair to the window. It's so nice to sit in the summer sunlight, don't you think?" He patted her shoulder affectionately. "Naturally, you needn't do anything else around the house. If you want to, you can go to Market Square and do some shopping, but don't take Waif with you. There are cats everywhere at the moment, I don't know why."

Charmain smiled at him. "Thanks, Great Uncle William. Why don't you take Waif with you? She'd love to see Jamal and his dog."

"What a wonderful idea." He stood up stiffly. "I will see you tonight. I will probably be home around seven. Oh – and order supper before I get home? Just tap the pantry door and say 'Supper, with –' I think roast chicken would be very nice, don't you? With potatoes, I think, and that carrot and onion thing that Peter does so well. Of course, it all comes raw, but you have that little book of food spells, don't you? Have a lovely day, my dear."

"You too, Great Uncle William," Charmain said, looking longingly at her book.

He walked awkwardly towards the door, leaning on his walking stick. He turned towards Charmain. "Oh – and Charmain, dear?"

"Yes?"

"If you and Peter get into a fight, please don't use magic. Last time, it took a week for the apple tree to stop throwing rotten apples at passer-bys."

She laughed. "Great Uncle William, I learned my lesson. You needn't worry."

He twinkled at her again and left to have much the same conversation with Peter, omitting 'for the apple tree to stop throwing rotten apples' and replacing it with 'for the mould to fall off Charmain's best dress.'

Peter went to the study as soon as Wizard Norland had left. "Charmain, I have got a wonderful idea."

"Hmm?" Charmain flicked a page of her book.

"Stop reading and I'll tell you!"

She put her book down. "What is it, then? Are we going to set the kitchen on fire? Paint the roof green?"

Peter did not take offence at her sarcasm. "No. We're going to redecorate the living room."

Charmain was interested in spite of herself. "Oh yes? And how are we going to do that?"

"With magic, naturally." Peter grinned and took a book from the floor. "'Household Spells,'" he recited. "'Chapter Three, Redecoration and Renovation.' Didn't you say yourself that it looked boring?"

Charmain nodded. "It is very dull down there. All mouse-coloured. But shouldn't we ask Great Uncle William first?"

"No!" said Peter excitedly. "We'll do it as a surprise. He'll be so pleased. It's his birthday, or did you forget?"

Charmain's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh no! I did forget! My father gave me a cake to give him, but I didn't even wish Great Uncle William a happy birthday before he left."

Peter looked smug. "_I_ did. Anyway, it might get us out of having to do the laundry tomorrow."

Charmain was a little doubtful. "All right," she said eventually.

They had to flip through _Household Spells _for a while before finding something that looked promising. _A Spell to Change the Colour of Walls,_ it said.

Charmain read the list of ingredients aloud, interrupting herself with comments and instructions.

"A grey feather – Peter, could you pull one off the feather duster? A hair from the tail of a dog – that's easy, I'll grab one of Waif's from her bed. A sheet of paper – go get that from the study, would you? A blade of grass – that shouldn't be a problem. An egg – pantry, I suppose. A silk handkerchief – what an odd ingredient! I think I have one. Two purple flowers – from one of the hydrangeas perhaps. A glass bowl – kitchen? And a twig – there'll be some in the backyard. This spell needs two people. Well, that's easy enough."

She got up to get everything that she hadn't told Peter to get when he came back, sweating heavily. "It's hot up there," he said by way of explanation. He put the three things on the arm of the sofa. "Could I open the window?"

"I'm sure you _could_, if you wanted," said Charmain vaguely. "Drat this ingredient! A silk handkerchief, of all things. I only have one, and I'd rather like to keep it."

"Could I open the window?" Peter repeated, not listening to what she was saying. "It's quite hot."

"Yes, you are," said Charmain, even more distractedly. Realising what she had said, she blushed slightly. "Yes, go ahead, open the window."

Peter had already flicked open the latch and was pushing the window open. A cool breeze rushed through, slightly rearranging the hydrangeas on the coffee table. Revelling in the fresh air, they didn't notice.

"That's better," he said happily. "Now, I'll get the grass, the twig and the flowers if you get the glass bowl, the egg and the silk handkerchief."

"Bother that!" said Charmain. "I'm keeping my good handkerchief. I'm sure cotton will do just as well." She tossed her plait over her shoulder and fetched her oldest cotton handkerchief from her room. "There. It doesn't matter so much if I lose this one."

Peter was already in the living room when Charmain got back from searching. He had put the grass and the twig by the other things, but was looking at the flowers with a slightly worried look. He showed them to Charmain.

"They're not really properly purple, they're sort of mauve," he said. "I couldn't find any really purple ones. I think they'll do, though."

Charmain agreed and looked back at the book to read the instructions.

"Stage One: Place hair and grass into the bowl, and break the egg into it."

Peter, listening, had already done this.

"Stage Two: Mix together with twig.

"Stage Three: Lay the feather on top of the mixture, making sure not to let it sink.

"Stage Four: Clasp hands with the other magician over the bowl, and say 'Deuce' at the same time."

Charmain put the book down and held her hands over the bowl. Peter hesitated.

"Come on, Peter," she said crossly. "This was your idea."

Peter sighed and took her hands in his.

_His hands are so warm_, she thought.

She nodded. "Deuce!" they said in unison.

The feather seemed to shiver a little and sunk slowly into the eggy mixture.

Peter dropped Charmain's hands like they were hot coals, and picked the book up from the floor.

"Stage Five," he said. "Write upon the paper with the mixture, using the twig as a pen, the colour you wish the walls to be, and fold the paper in two."

He looked at Charmain. "What colour?"

"Off-white," she said confidently. He wrote it quite neatly on the paper, and folded it. He looked back at the book.

"Stage Six: Fold the paper small enough that it fits in the bowl, and place it on top of the mixture, reciting the word 'Margarine' as you do so."

"Stage Seven," Charmain said, taking the book from Peter. "Stand the twig in the bowl, and drape the handkerchief over the twig.

"Stage Eight: Both magicians should take a flower and say 'Mosquito' three times, dipping the flower into the mixture each time. On the last recital, leave the flower in the mixture."

"Do we have to say 'Mosquito' at the same time?" Peter wanted to know.

Charmain looked back at the spell. "It doesn't say. We probably should, just in case. It can't do any harm."

"Mosquito, mosquito, mosquito!" they both said, dipping the flowers in the mixture.

Again, nothing seemed to happen, although Peter later swore that the flowers had changed from a pink-mauve to a blue-mauve.

"Stage Nine," said Charmain, "and this is the last one, thank heavens! Clasp hands over the bowl as in Stage Four, and say 'Florentines' in unison."

Peter sighed and took Charmain's hands. "Florentines!" he said, Charmain following half a beat behind.

Something definitely happened then. Bright orange smoke rose from the bowl, almost suffocatingly thick. Peter and Charmain both ran to the window and stuck their heads out, coughing.

"Something must have gone wrong," said Charmain between coughs.

"Nonsense," said Peter, wheezing. "The smoke's already started to go away."

They turned around, and Charmain screamed. True, the smoke was dissipating, but the walls were not even nearly off-white. The floor, the coffee table and the trolley were no longer dark wood. The chairs were no longer mouse-coloured.

Instead, everything was an eye-searing shade of pink.

Heading into the kitchen, they were relieved to find that everything was the same as normal in there. The bathroom, the bedrooms and the study were all normal as well. However, as Charmain so cheerfully put it, "we have approximately eight hours until Great Uncle William gets back, and one of his favourite rooms in the whole house is bright pink. If we don't manage to fix it by then, we'll be doing all the chores for the next seventeen months. _And _we'll have to scrub the blue fur off the water tank."

Charmain headed back into the living room, leaving Peter to search for books on getting rid of spells. She noticed that the glass bowl, and everything in it, had completely vanished. She wasn't surprised. However, she was surprised that the book, too, seemed to have disappeared.

She waved her hand at the wall. "Go white!" she screamed. "Now! I order you!"

Nothing happened. She tried again, holding her hand against the wall. Again, nothing happened, except that when she took away her hand, it was the same bright pink as the walls. When she looked at them, so too were the soles of her boots.

Charmain swore quite eloquently.

Peter came back in. He dumped a large pile of books on the sofa. "That's all the ones I could find."

Charmain groaned. "It'll take us hours to look through all of those! We haven't _time_!"

Peter wasn't listening. He had noticed a hand-shaped mark on the wall where the pink wasn't quite so bright, and boot-marks along the floor.

"Charmain," he said cautiously. "Look at this."

He bent down and rubbed his hand across the floor. When he took his hand away, it was bright pink, but the floor looked quite a bit browner. He wiped his hand on his jacket, leaving a pink stain. He grinned at her. "We don't need spell books! We just need to scrub."

Charmain made a face. She hated scrubbing as much as she hated earthworms.

"Don't look like that," Peter yelled from inside the pantry. "Yes, I know you're scowling. This is the quickest way. Or would you rather read all the books for a possible repair?" He continued without waiting for a reply. "Fill a bucket full of hot water and soap, would you?"

Charmain did so, with very bad grace.

It was midday before Peter and Charmain had found enough rags to clean the living room properly. They also had found a ladder, which would be useful to clean the ceiling. Charmain's stomach was grumbling as she swiped a damp, soapy cloth across the floor.

Unfortunately, it didn't wipe away the pink. In fact, the spot of floor where she had wiped seemed to be glowing even brighter.

"Try it without soap!" yelled Peter.

Glowering, Charmain soaked another rag in plain hot water. This worked a lot better. Peter dumped the soapy water into the garden and refilled the bucket with plain water.

It took them four hours to clean away most of the pink. However, no matter how hard they scrubbed, they couldn't change the colour of the armchair and sofa. They remained obstinately pink. It might have stayed like that, if Peter hadn't hit on the bright idea of finding another spell book, helpfully called _Changing Colours: How to Make Things the Colours You Want Them to Be_. It was a very thin book, with pages falling out, but the two of them managed to find a suitable spell that only needed a wooden bowl and a fresh leaf.

"Stage One," said Charmain. "Tap the item with the leaf and say the colour you want it to be, while seeing the colour in your mind's eye."

She looked at Peter, who shrugged. "Red," he suggested.

Charmain tapped the sofa with the leaf. "Crimson," she said after a bit of thought.

"Stage Two," said Peter, looking at the book. "Place the leaf in the bowl and place it on top of the item."

She did so.

"Stage Three," said Peter. "Scream as long and loud as you are able to in one breath."

Charmain took a deep breath, placing the bowl on the sofa.

And she screamed.

Peter covered his ears, wincing.

Charmain screamed and screamed and screamed. Finally, she stopped, and flopped on the ground. "What's next?" she rasped.

"Stage Four, and this is the last one. Take the bowl from the item, close your eyes, and clap your hands three times."

Charmain closed her eyes and clapped.

"Did it work?" she asked, her eyes still closed.

"Crimson's red, right?"

"Yes."

"Then it worked."

Charmain opened her eyes with relief. The sofa was now a comfortable shade of red that complemented the dark wooden floor. However, the armchair was still painfully bright pink.

Peter fetched another leaf and repeated the spell, this time performing it on the armchair. Charmain repeated it once more to change the walls from a dull, mousey sort of cream to a pleasant off-white. Charmain tapped her wrist and said, "Time," just as Peter and Charmain had finished pushing the chair underneath the window, as Great Uncle William had asked them to. It was three minutes past six.

"Oh help! The supper!" cried Charmain, and ran into the kitchen. She knocked on the pantry door. "Supper, with chicken and potatoes and carrots and onions," she gasped. There was a sort of plopping noise from the table, and the vegetables appeared, along with a very large chicken – plucked, but still with head and feet attached – landed on the table. The cream appeared too, in a china bowl with a blue flower pattern.

"Urgh," said Charmain, looking at the chicken. "Peter, could you come and help?"

Peter came in and looked at the chicken. "Yuck."

"I know!" wailed Charmain. "What are we going to do?"

He looked thoughtful. "I suppose we should chop the head and feet off."

"You can do that," ordered Charmain. "Just looking at that makes me sick to my stomach. I'll roast the potatoes and then the chicken, and you can do that carrot thing." She ignored Peter's mutterings of 'lazy, so-delicate, bossy thing' and his angry chopping, and tossed the potatoes onto the table. She flapped her hands crossly. "Peel, you stupid things!" She poked the nearest potato. The skin grumpily peeled off, and Charmain tossed it away from her. She kept jabbing the potatoes with her fingers until all the skins had been peeled off.

Peter and Charmain set the table, waiting impatiently for Wizard Norland to return. He was back at exactly seven o' clock, coming into the kitchen via the passage from the Royal Mansion to his house, Waif in tow. "What a day!" he said, sitting in the chair nearest the fireplace. "That book had a very old, very nasty curse on it, and when Princess Hilda opened it, she immediately went blind. It took hours for me to find a cure, and then I had to burn the book. The King was not happy about losing a book from his collection." He patted Waif, as though trying to soothe himself.

"Oh dear," said Charmain sympathetically. "We haven't had an easy d-"

Peter cut her off. "Don't you remember?" he hissed. "It's a surprise."

"What are you two whispering about?" asked Wizard Norland with a slight smile.

"Oh – nothing, Great Uncle William," said Charmain, a little flustered. "Do have some chicken." She pressed the entire platter on him.

He chuckled. "I think I shall, but not quite that much."

The meal passed quite congenially, even though Waif was gobbling her food rather noisily. They talked about inanely normal things, such as the weather, although both Charmain and Peter were dying to tell him about their day. Finally, after everybody had eaten a rather large dinner and put their plates in the sink, Charmain dragged Peter to his feet and smiled at Wizard Norland.

"We've organised a little surprise for you," she said breathlessly. "Would you close your eyes, please?"

"I thought you must have something up your sleeves," he said with a smile. He closed his eyes and waited patiently.

Peter tapped the table. "Tea," he said, very quietly. A large pot of tea appeared, along with several cups and saucers, some teaspoons, a sugar bowl, a jug of milk and three small plates. Charmain went into the pantry. She had hidden a chocolate cake from her father's shop there the day before.

The two of them and Waif walked into the living room, Charmain attempting to balance the cake and hold the door open. Wizard Norland followed, still smiling. Charmain put the cake down on the coffee table – Peter put the various things he was holding down as well – and led him to his armchair.

"Open your eyes," she said, her voice wobbling slightly.

Wizard Norland did so.

"How lovely," he said warmly, after looking around for a good minute. "The sofa and my armchair are both such a nice shade of red, and the walls look a lot more pleasant that colour. And is that a cake I can see?"

Charmain smiled and cut three large pieces. "Peter, pour the tea," she ordered. "Happy birthday, Great Uncle William."

"I thought you had forgotten." He sipped his tea. "Thank you very much, my dears." He paused and looked at them. "If you think that this has gotten you out of doing the laundry tomorrow, think again."

Peter sighed very quietly. "It was worth a shot," he muttered to Charmain.


	4. Chapter Four

Author's Note: Just a short chapter. By the way, please keep in mind that these are not necessarily in chronological order (although they mostly are).

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Chapter Four

In Which Far Too Much Cooking Is Attempted

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The mangy-looking apple tree in Wizard Norland's backyard, with no warning whatsoever, had erupted into gloriously healthy, vibrant life. The apples ripened very quickly, and by mid-September were dropping onto the grass.

"There's just one thing we can do, I suppose," said Charmain decisively. "We have to do something with these apples, and quickly. They'll all rot before long."  
Peter looked gloomy. For some reason, he had turned into the household cook, a task which he did not particularly relish.

Wizard Norland looked approving. "An excellent idea. Apple sauces, apple pies, pork with apples, preserved apples, apples with cheese, baked apples, dried apples, apple cider…" He trailed off, looking dreamy.

Peter looked even glummer.

Waif, for some reason, looked rather smug.

Peter folded his arms. "All right," he said crossly. "But Charmain has to help me."

Waif wagged her tail.

Peter banged a fourth bag of apples down onto the kitchen table. "There!" he said. "That's the last of it." He wiped a hand over his forehead. "They're heavy."

Charmain nodded wearily from a chair in the corner. She slammed a cookbook shut. "All this one does is blather on about what heat the oven needs to be." She grabbed another from the large pile next to her with one hand, trying to put her hair up with the other.

She half-succeeded. Her hair, instead of being in its usual plait, was in a strange lumpy bun that looked as though it was about to fall out. However, it was out of the way. Charmain chewed an apple as she read.

"Here's a nice recipe," she said. "Apple pie with cloves and rosewater – oh, we haven't any rosewater." She spat out a pip and continued, "I'll take some of the apples to Dad, I think. I can get the rosewater at the bakery."

Peter, trying to juggle three apples, stopped. "It's Sunday. The shop will be closed."

Charmain frowned. "Oh, you're right. Well, nothing with rosewater then."

Peter took another cookbook and curled up in the opposite corner. Every now and then, they'd call out likely-sounding recipes to each other.

"Charmain, how about baked apples with a jam filling?"

"That sounds good. Ooh, ham with apple sauce."

"Lovely! Broccoli and apple soup?"

"That sounds interesting. Oh, apple crumble!"

"Delicious! Wait, crystallised apple? That sounds a little odd."

"It does sound good, though. Apple mousse?"

"Oh, eurgh! Apples with anchovies!"

"That does sound very strange. Cabbage with apples sounds strange too, don't you think?"

It took them a while to sort through the various recipe books. There were almost a dozen, as well as the pastry and cake cookbooks that Charmain's father had lent them, and they all had recipes with apples in them. However, as there were about forty ripe apples, it didn't matter too much.

Charmain pulled her hair into a tighter bun, and Peter tied an apron over his clothes. Usually, they would have laughed at each other – Charmain, apart from looking like a very strict school-mistress with her hair up, was wearing her oldest dress, which strained a bit around the bust and shoulders and was in a rather unbecoming shade of pink; Peter was wearing, as well as the apron, a pair of pants and a shirt, both too small and showing a lot of gangly leg and wrist – but they were feeling too serious to do so.

"Let's start," said Peter, after staring nervously at the bags of apples on the table.

Waif was a bit worried. She'd been told to keep out of the kitchen, and odd smells were coming from under the door. She could hear Charmain yelling and Peter yelling back, although she couldn't hear what was being said. She went to sit on Wizard Noland's lap. He patted her.

It was midnight before it quietened down. Wizard Norland and Waif, who had both been told to 'buzz off and get dinner somewhere else,' looked at the door of the silent kitchen. Wizard Norland opened it.

Food everywhere. A large cake covered with apple slices dominated the kitchen table, while a huge bowl of soup perched on the draining board. A massive leg of ham lay in the sink, a jug of apple sauce next to it, and an immense pie on one of the chairs. Even the floor had food on it – a vast apple crumble on a plate next to a table leg, and a giant pitcher of apple juice next to the pantry door. The only spot that did not have any food on it was the corner by the fireplace.

Peter and Charmain were sprawled there, fast asleep. Charmain was curled up with her head on Peter's shoulder, and Peter had his legs stretched out and his head leaning on the wall behind him.

_It is fortunate_, mused Wizard Norland, _that I am well-stocked with pillows and blankets_. He gently tucked a pillow under Charmain's head and behind Peter's, and covered the two of them with a blanket. He muttered a charm to stop flies finding the food, and headed wearily to his bedroom.

Waif curled up by the fireplace, in the crook of Charmain's legs.

Charmain, often an early riser, slept a lot longer than she usually would. Indeed, it was after ten before she woke. The food had been bustled away into the pantry, and two large breakfast trays had been set beside them for when they awoke. She nudged Peter awake. "Food! Peter, wake up!"

He did so and, as he often did in the morning, stretched and looked out the window.

"Charmain, you aren't going to like this."

"Like what?" she asked, already halfway through her plate of pancakes.

"The tree."

She stood up and looked out the window. The ground beneath the tree was, again, covered with apples.

She groaned. "I'm eating. I'll deal with them later."

Waif took a pancake in her mouth and gobbled it happily, then trotted outside. Charmain and Peter were never quite sure what had happened, but there was a flash and the apples – both the ones on the ground and the ones in the tree – vanished.

"Waif?" Charmain was first outside. "You funny dog, what did you do?"

Waif wagged her tail, looking very pleased with herself, and jabbed her nose towards the town.

"You sent them into town? Where? The market?"

Waif wagged her tail again.

"Oh, clever girl!" Peter patted her happily. "No more apples! No more cooking!"

"Just a huge amount of dishes to do," said Charmain ruefully.


	5. Chapter Five

Author's Note: I think the next few chapters may detail what happens over this _particular _weekend.

Reviews rock!

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Chapter Five

Which Concerns Broken Glasses and Illegible Letters

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Wizard Norland, like most wizards, had rather messy writing. Although he could make it a lot neater when writing slowly, when in a hurry it was almost illegible. On a very early Friday morning in late September, he received a letter from the far reaches of High Norland, where there had been an epidemic of magical origin. He was the only wizard, the townspeople reasoned, who was strong enough to banish this illness.

Unfortunately, the message had only arrived almost a week after it was sent. By the time he received it, the plague had already begun to spread into the surrounding towns and villages. As such, he had to leave in a terrible rush, with only enough time to write a short note. Charmain and Peter had not yet awoken, and Wizard Norland didn't have time to wake them up and explain.

Even more unfortunately, Charmain had broken her glasses, and Peter did not have much practice at reading Wizard Norland's handwriting.

Charmain held it at full arms' length in front of her, squinting.

"Dean – no, _dear_ – Charmaln and Peler. What? Oh, Charmain and Peter, of course."

Peter snatched it from her. "I… om... somg… ta… tall… yan…" He handed it back. "It's like reading a different language!"

"It says, 'I am sorry to tell you.' Oh, you're _useless_!" said Charmain crossly. "And _I_ can't even read a _book_ at the moment!" She ruefully fished out her smashed glasses from where she had tucked them into her sash. In a moment of absent-mindedness, she had forgotten the chain they usually hung on. They had slipped from the end of her nose, and fallen to shatter on a hard wooden chair in the kitchen, where – to add insult to injury – Charmain had sat on them. There was only the frame (bent and twisted beyond repair) and some glass shards left of what had previously been a pair of serviceable glasses.

Peter grabbed the letter back. "I am _not _useless, thank you! And at least _I _haven't ever sat on my own spectacles, Miss Too-Busy-Reading-to-Look-Where-She's-Going."

Charmain snatched it. "You would sit on them if you even _owned _glasses, you clumsy, stupid idiot, which, seeing as you can't read this perfectly simple missive, you might well need to!"

"Me, need glasses?!" shouted Peter, gripping one half of the letter. "Well, evidently _you _do, as you can't see that this letter is utterly unreadable!" He tugged at the paper. "Hand it over and I'll see if I can decipher it."

"You?" Charmain snorted. "You couldn't even read one page of _Harry and Rosie Go to the Beach_, not if you tried for a million years!" She tugged at her half of the letter.

"Better _Harry and Rosie _than the drivel _you_ read when you think I'm not looking!" He imitated a simpering face. "'Oh Charles!' 'Oh Margaret!'" He let go of the letter to clasp his hands in front of his chest sarcastically. "Complete and utter slop!"

"I have read _three _romance novels in my life. _Three_. That's not even a hundredth of the amount _you've_ flipped through, I'd bet."

"_Three_? Hah! That number, I suppose, isn't including _The_ _Princess Lilac Mysteries_? Oh, what were they – _Stolen in Strangia_, _Murdered in Montalbino_, _Attacked in Alberia_, _Robbed in Rashpuht_, _Poisoned in Peichstan_, _Tortured in Thayack _and _Interred in Ingary_. I admit that _I _is a difficult letter to associate with crimes, but surely they could have done better than _interred_?" He chuckled. "But what I'm saying is, in case you hadn't noticed, Princess Lilac (and what a silly name that is!) is always kissing someone, often multiple times, in every single one of those books. And of course he always conveniently turns out to be the murderer or the Duke of Such-and-such who has had an arranged marriage planned from birth or he mysteriously and handily dies by the end of the story."

Charmain was a furious pink. "Those books aren't _mine_! I told you, I bought them for my mother's birthday." She paused. "And you know about those books _how_?" She tossed the letter on the table. "Have you been sneaking around my room again?"

"No!" Peter protested. "In case you didn't recall, that day your mother visited, you'd put them behind the sofa and forgot to give them to her. I happened to read one, that's all. Or maybe two."

"How can you _happen _to read a book? You either read it on purpose or you don't read it at all."

"Well, I _happened _to be tryingto clean that corner where the kobolds can't ever reach, andI _happened _to find the books there, and I _happened _to decide that they should be somewhere else so I could reach the dratted corner, so I picked one up, and one _happened_ to fall open, and I _happened _to read a few lines. Quite simple."

"And the book just _happened _to keep flipping to the next page?" She chortled. "That I don't believe." She picked up the letter. "We have to try and read this, or we'll be all day." She held it out again and squinted. "And _I'm_ going to read it."

"No, _I _am!" said Peter. "I can read it perfectly well!" He snatched the letter, but Charmain was too quick – she tugged it back.

The paper ripped right down the middle.

"Oh, _now _look what you've done!" Charmain was hopelessly trying to get the pieces of paper to stay together.

"Me?" Peter looked incredulous. "Oh, that's a laugh. If _you _hadn't tried to read it when you can't see _any_ words further than a foot away –"

"If _you _hadn't tried to read it when you can't _read _handwriting –"

"I can _so _see further than a foot! It's _close-up _things I have trouble with, you dimwit –"

"I _can _read handwriting, just not _his_!"

"Oh, and that's _my _fault now?"

"No, but if _you _hadn't sat on your stupid _glasses_ –"

"You think _I'm _happy about that? I can't _read_, I can barely _write_, I can't do _anything _unless it's big enough to see from a yard away –"

"Oh, and that's _my _fault then? You should be blaming your _parents _for giving you that dumb characteristic."

"You should be blaming _your _parents for not teaching you how to _read _properly!"

"MY DAD IS _DEAD_!" roared Peter, completely drowning out Charmain. "And my _mum _is far too busy to teach me stupid things like that!"

"Reading's _stupid_, then?"

"Being able to read handwriting like _that _is! It looks like a spider fell in a pot of ink and took a little stroll!"

Charmain looked at the paper.

"It does, actually. But what on earth are we going to do? And, for that matter, _where _is Great Uncle William?"

Peter frowned, starting to cool off. "I haven't seen him all day. You don't suppose there's a problem somewhere and he's been called away, do you?"

"A problem like what?"

Peter pointed at a single word on the paper. "'Disease.' It looks like it says 'bleeaese' but I think it's 'disease'."

"Oh, hell," said Charmain. "And it says here – what does it say, Peter?"

"'Do… rot… axquct… me…' – other side – 'something-ack… nutil… Nlanbag.' D'you think it's a spell?"

"No, you idiot! Let me see."

She squinted.

"'Do not expect me back until Monday.' That's what it says, I think."

"Monday?" Peter looked aghast. "That's ages away! Three days!"

"And I haven't any spectacles!"

"Oh, bother your stupid spectacles! For once, think about someone besides yourself, Charmain! What about Waif? She's only a week away from giving birth!" He paused. "Where _is _Waif?"

Charmain was peering at the page again. "I think it says something about her here." She pointed to a word that had torn through the middle.

Peter looked over her shoulder. "It looks like 'Malt', but I suppose it could well be 'Waif'. I don't see why he'd be telling us about malt." He bent closer. "'Do… nat… momy… aolaut _Waif_. I…ulink… she… mill… oheer… up… loatients… so… arn… toking… hen… mith… me… to… Applebridge.' That last word's clear enough. Applebridge. That sounds like a nice place." He looked at the two sentences again. "Oh, not 'aolaut', it's '_about_'. And 'patients, not 'loatients'. I think it says, 'Do not worry about Waif. I think she will cheer up patients so am taking her with me to Applebridge.'"

"That seems clear enough," said Charmain. "You're improving at that whole reading-his-handwriting lark, aren't you?" she added approvingly.

"Well, you know…" Peter shrugged. A thought came to him. "If the Wizard and Waif are away, and your mum won't let you go into town without her, and _my_ mum says I'll get lost if I go by myself – which is perfectly true – and you can't read, and I've read all the interesting-looking books already… what are we going to do until Monday?"

Charmain looked worried, and then ran left through the doorway. Peter followed.

"I _know _Mum must've packed them!" Charmain was rummaging through her bureau and throwing various items of clothing onto the floor. "She _knows _I can't go five minutes without reading, and she _knows _I always lose things! Where _are _they?"

"Where are _what_?" asked Peter, coming into her room to help her search.

"My spare glasses," she said. "I know they're here somewhere…"

"You have spare glasses? Why didn't you get them before?"

"I didn't know where they were! I still don't."

"Have you checked your bag?" Peter held up a plain brown leather handbag, with an obvious glasses-case sticking out.

"_Peter_! Thank you!" Charmain whirled around and hugged him tightly. "Thank you thank you thank you!"

"Any time," said Peter, feeling very uncomfortable.

Charmain let him go to settle her spectacles on her nose. They did not look as good as her old ones, but the sigh of relief she gave as she looked through them made him smile.

"They're all right, then?"

"Yes, they're fine!" Charmain was already walking to the study. She stopped and turned around. "But what are we going to do? _I've _read everything interesting here as well."

"Well," said Peter with a look that was half grin, half grimace, "we'll just have to think of some things to do."


	6. Chapter Six

Author's Note: Charmain's illness in this comes directly from the last time I had 'flu-with-vomiting, except that I did not dare to go back to sleep and spent the night on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel and shivering or sweating with heat. Unfortunately, there was no spell to make _me _get better!

I love reviews, guys. I know you're reading this; there have been 39 visitors to this story in the past month, but I've only gotten three reviews - all from **Rebel of my Destiny**, who rocks to bits. So, all you other guys... please? I'll even throw in a bit more Peter/Charmain next chapter, if you like. I'm not just asking for "omg so good lol write more!!!!", although of course that's always nice. I'm asking for constructive criticism too, so that I can improve my writing.

By the way, I will probably not be updating for about a week, as I am going to Melbourne. Enjoy, anyway!

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Chapter Six

Wherein Shoes Melt Quite Unexpectedly

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It was quite early on Saturday morning when Charmain awoke feeling entirely unwell. She was decidedly dizzy and her stomach felt rather rebellious. She managed to slip her feet into her slippers and her arms into her dressing gown before stumbling into the closest room, which happened to be Peter's, and falling on the floor.

Peter looked at her groggily. "Charmain? Wha's goin' on?" He yawned.

Charmain now felt far too hot, and threw off her dressing gown. "I feel funny," she muttered croakily. She turned white and vomited on the carpet.

Peter frowned. "That floor was _clean_!" He rubbed his eyes and looked at her properly. "You all right?"

Charmain paled even further and fainted, collapsing against the cupboard and slithering down to the floor.

"Well, that answers that," grumbled Peter, feeling far too awake for so early in the morning. He pushed his bedclothes off and slid his feet into slippers before walking over to Charmain and crouching next to her. She had regained consciousness, but was still obviously lightheaded. "What's the matter?"

"Feel sick," she moaned. "Too hot. Head hurts. Throat hurts. Everything hurts."

Peter looked at her flushed cheeks. "You've got a temperature," he said. "You must have the 'flu. Go back to bed." He reached out his hands to help her up, but Charmain flopped her hand to shoo him away.

"'F I stand up, I'll be sick 'gain. Don't wan' go an'where," she muttered. "Cold. 'M cold."

Peter picked her up, ignoring her protestations, and managed to put her in his bed, where she immediately and unceremoniously threw up over the side. Peter managed to move away without getting splattered, but Charmain's dressing gown did not.

"Ugh," said Peter, holding out the now rather messy garment.

Charmain collapsed against the pillows and squinted around. "Did th' walls always move? I can't 'member."

"The walls? Moving?" Peter stared at the wall behind the bed. It looked just the same as it always did: neatly whitewashed except for the footprints from when he had last tried to do a headstand. "They're not moving."

"They are!" Charmain pointed at them with a hand that shook rather. "All wobbly. Like jelly."

Peter felt her forehead and drew his hand back in shock. "You're burning!" _Hallucinations_, he thought to himself. _No wonder. She feels like an oven_.

"Am _not_!" said Charmain crossly. "Cold. Not hot. 'M freezin'." She shivered and tried, weakly, to pull the blanket over herself. Peter did it for her.

"I'll be back in a minute, Charmain."

She didn't answer. She had fallen asleep.

Peter looked at all of the shelves in the study, trying to find a book on First Aid. _Medical Magic (So many of these books have silly titles_, Peter thought disdainfully)looked the most likely. He flipped through it, trying to find a spell for curing the flu. He found it under I, for Influenza (after looking through Itching, Insomnia, and Irritability, the latter of which he thought he might use on Charmain some day)

'Ingredients,' he read, 'two teaspoons of honey, a pinch of pepper, a live earthworm,' (_a worm! _he thought. _Charmain will not like this at all_), 'a digestive biscuit, a cup of hot water and a silver spoon.'

"Funny list of ingredients," he muttered, slipping on his favourite boots.

It took less time than he had thought it would to find them. Within five minutes, he was looking back at _Medical Magic_.

'Stage One. Intone the words, 'Malum influentia, dimitto!' over the biscuit, while sprinkling it with the pepper.'

"Malum influ–" He sneezed. "Malum influentia, dimitto."

'Stage Two. Spread one teaspoon of honey on the digestive biscuit and hand to the patient. They must leave at least a crumb.'

"Charmain!" he yelled.

She stumbled down the corridor and into the study. "What?" she said crossly, sitting down and leaning against the bookshelf. "I was sleeping. Y' woke me up."

"Sorry," said Peter, truthfully. "Only I'm working on a spell to make you better." He handed her the spelled biscuit, smothered in honey and pepper. "You have to eat some of this."

Charmain went green again, but took a small bite.

'Stage Three. Feed a crumb of the biscuit to the worm and say, 'Let the illness leave [patient] and go into this worm.''

He took the worm out of his pyjama pocket, where he had put it.

"_Ugh_!" said Charmain. "A _worm_!"

Peter ignored her and tried to feed a crumb to the worm.

(If you've ever tried to feed a worm anything that isn't dirt, you know how difficult it is.

If you haven't, imagine trying to feed a cat a pill, but the cat's smaller than your hand and the medicine is as big as its whole mouth.)

Peter managed to eventually shove the crumb down the worm's throat. Charmain was dozing again.

"Let the illness leave Charmain and go into this worm," Peter said grumpily.

Charmain opened her eyes and looked blearily at him. "Bit medieval, isn't it?"

"If it works," said Peter, "it can be as medieval as it wants."

"True." Charmain yawned and closed her eyes again.

'Stage Three,' read Peter. 'Add the leftover biscuit and the second teaspoon of honey to the water and drop the worm in. Say, 'May this potion cleanse [patient] from their influenza and bring them whole again,' while stirring three times clockwise with the silver spoon.'

Peter stirred and spoke.

Charmain looked at him. "This really is a very strange spell."

"Not really," said Peter distractedly. He was reading the last line.

'Stage Four. Have the patient stand up and say, 'Let it be so,' then drink the potion. The worm must be swallowed.'

"You're not going to like this, Charmain," he started, but Charmain shrugged,

"I don't like 'flu either. Wha' do I have t' do?"

"Swallow the mixture, with the worm in it."

"Ugh!" said Charmain. "Def'nitely medieval!"

Peter pulled her up. She managed to stay standing, although she was swaying rather.

"Say this," said Peter, showing her the book.

Charmain managed a smile. "No glasses. Can't read."

Peter ran out of the room and grabbed her glasses from her bedside table. He handed them back to her. "Better?"

"Mos'ly." She could read now, although the letters looked a bit odd from her fever. "Let it be so," she said as clearly as she could, and drank the potion down as quickly as she could.

It had a quite surprising effect on Charmain. It felt as though her entire body had just been set on fire. Her eyes were literally glowing with heat. Her nightdress hem was ablaze, her slippers were burning, and with her red hair streaming down her back, she looked like some sort of fire goddess.

Peter was burning too, although not like she was. He was simply suffering from the heat thatCharmain was emitting. He thought, quite blurrily, through the blazing pain, that they would both be dead if they didn't have magic.

And then, quite suddenly, it stopped.

Charmain sagged, filled with relief, both that she no longer felt ill and that she was no longer on fire.

Peter panted, exhausted from a mixture of the magic-working, being awoken at six in the morning and being almost set on fire. However, he was utterly exhilarated at working a spell that had actually worked exactly the way he'd meant it to.

Or so he thought, until he tried to move.

"My shoes!" he gasped. "They're not moving!"

Charmain tried to move her feet as well. Her slippers, too, were stuck. "Oh, Peter, what on Earth have you done?"

"Me?" asked Peter, trying to work out whether to be outraged or amused. He chose the former. "You're the one who practically set the bloody place on fire!"

Charmain scowled. "It was _your_ spell!"

"Funny, I didn't see you complaining just a minute ago, when you said you were feeling better."

"That was before I realised my feet were stuck to the rug!" She blinked, suddenly feeling very foolish, and eased her feet out of her slippers.

Peter felt rather silly as well. He bent down to untie his boots so as not to look her in the eye, for fear that he would burst out laughing.

He managed to take his boots off and tried to find out why they were so stuck.

He looked up at Charmain, aghast.

"The soles melted!"

That was all it took to set them both off. They laughed for a full ten minutes. Every time one of them started to calm down, the other would say something to make them laugh again.

Finally, when their sides and stomachs were aching and their eyes were watering from laughter, they managed to stop.

"But what are we to do about the shoes?" asked Peter after a while of lying there breathing heavily.

Charmain shrugged. "Pull them off, I suppose."

"Well now, how devastatingly simple!" Peter said sardonically. "I wish I'd thought of that. Only one little problem I can see: we _can't _pull them off. We already tried, in case you've forgotten. When our feet were still inside."

"Well, maybe with two of us pulling at the shoe…"

"Let's try, but it's not going to work."

Much to Peter's disgust, it did.

Unfortunately, it left foot-shaped holes in the rug, a truly beautiful one from Rashpuht.

"_Now _what do we do?" said Charmain.

"We could just leave it and hope that Wizard Norland doesn't notice," suggested Peter hopefully.

Charmain looked at him.

"I know, I know, but it was worth a shot. Um… magic?"

"I knew you'd say that," said Charmain, sounding resigned. "Only you should do it. I'll go clean up your room. Sorry."

"That's fine," started Peter, but Charmain had already left to find a bucket and soap.

It was an hour later before Charmain returned. She was evidently about to either attempt to disgust him with various detailed descriptions of the vomit, or to scold him about leaving socks under the bed (again). However, Peter had problems of his own to worry about.

The rug where the shoes had been had grown back in the correct pattern. However, it had grown far, far too much, and far, far too fast. It was a foot from the ceiling and still growing.

"Peter, you'll never believe what I found under your–" She cut off in mid-sentence and stared, gaping, at the carpet.

"_What _have you _done_?"

Peter winced. Her voice was abnormally loud, screechy and shocked.

"It's not my fault! I did just what it said to do in _Household Spells_ for fixing holes in carpets!"

"Well, the spells in that book don't work properly! In case you didn't recall, last time we turned the living room _pink_!"

"That was because you didn't want to give up your stupid silk handkerchief! It would have worked fine otherwise!"

"Oh, and what about your mauve flowers?"

"Charmain, shut up!"

"How _dare_ you tell me to shut up?"

"No, I mean look at the rug!"

Charmain's mouth dropped open again.

Through the forest of silken carpet fibres, Charmain and Peter could see the tips pressing against the ceiling.

"Charmain!" said Peter desperately. "Do something!"

"_What_?"

"I don't _know_!" he cried. "Something! Anything!"

Charmain took a deep breath.

"_STOP_, you stupid rag! I've half a mind to wipe the dishes with you! Stop – _bloody ­_– growing!"

Miraculously, they stopped growing.

Charmain, rather pleased with herself, added, "And shrink back to where you're meant to be. None of this nonsense."

Slowly and sulkily, the threads sunk back, finally stopping at about the same level as the other threads. Charmain thought they looked a little darker than the rest, but they were fine otherwise.

She breathed out, relieved.

Peter sighed. "It's only just after eight. What on earth is going to happen the rest of the day?"

Charmain shrugged. "I don't know, but if we don't have breakfast soon, there's going to be a mutiny, and I'll make sure there are pirates."

"Well," said Peter, "at least you're feeling better. Breakfast it is, then."

He shoved her, quite kindly, down the corridor.


	7. Chapter Seven

Author's Note: After a wonderful week in Melbourne, I am back and ready to write again. The egg thing actually happened to me the first - and only - time I tried to boil eggs.

Please review!

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Chapter Seven

In Which Somebody Else's Spells Go Wrong

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Peter walked into the kitchen, peering worriedly at Charmain. She looked a lot better, but she was still a bit unsteady on her feet. She sat down. "What do you want for breakfast, Peter? I haven't any preferences."

"Neither." He tapped the side of the fireplace. "Breakfast, please."

The normal floating tray appeared, but the only things on it were a piece of bread that looked like it had green and yellow sprinkles on it, which on closer inspection turned out to be mould, and a kipper that looked as though it had been sat on. _Even Waif would turn her nose up at that_, thought Charmain.

She hit the side of the fireplace. "Breakfast, please!"

Another floating tray appeared, this one with a very weak cup of tea sitting on it.

Peter and Charmain looked at each other in despair. They both reached for the fireplace and hammered it. "Breakfast! Breakfast! Breakfast!"

More and more floating trays appeared, pushing them towards the back door. One had a burnt piece of toast on it; another had a fried egg with a greenish yolk. The rest were totally empty.

Charmain's mouth trembled and she ran into the living room. "Morning coffee!" she said, slapping the trolley.

Food appeared. Stale cakes, a broken coffee pot with odd-smelling coffee in it, and a jug of off cream. Charmain sat on the sofa and put her head in her hands.

Peter stared at the trolley. "The spell must be wearing off," he said wearily. "I'd renew it, but I haven't a clue what book it's in. I suppose you don't either, do you?"

"_No_," snapped Charmain, close to tears. "And this was my best nightdress!"

Peter stared at her. "What?"

"It's all burnt!" she wailed. "And my slippers!"

He looked at her nightgown. He hadn't noticed before, but it was indeed burnt to tatters and he could see patches of pale skin through the gaps. He coughed slightly and turned away to hide both his curiosity and his embarrassment.

"Why bring that up now?" he asked, still turned away slightly. "We haven't any food, and you're worried about your nightie."

"Like I said before," said Charmain irritably, "it was my _best _nightie. It had pearl buttons and embroidery and everything."

"For _sleeping _in?"

"Yes," she said crossly. "And I'm _hungry_."

"And you think I'm _not_? Just like you to only think of yourself. We should go to your dad's bakery."

"They're busy working on a wedding cake, and the shop's shut. They won't let us in."

"Market Square?"

"I spent all my allowance on the _Princess Lilac Mysteries _books for my mum. D'you have any money?"

"Spent it on a new recipe spell book."

"Well!" said Charmain. "What the _hell _are we meant to do?"

Peter shrugged, looking sulky.

"Oh, you're _useless_!" she shouted. "You don't have a _clue _what to do!"

"Neither do you!"

She slapped him.

He shoved her away from him with one hand, holding hers in the other so she couldn't hit him again. Suddenly, he found himself supporting her entire weight, while she cried into his shoulder.

"I'm _hungry_!" she sobbed, "and I'm _cold_, and my headhurts, and there's nothing to _eat_!"

Peter dragged her to the sofa and sat her down, quite gently. He patted her back slightly. "I'm sure we can find _something_," he said.

Charmain wiped the tears away from her face and sniffled, before heading to the kitchen and opening the pantry door.

"There's a loaf of bread in here," she said, holding it out. "And butter, and eggs. We could cook those."

Peter wasn't listening. He'd gone outside and was picking a twig up from the ground by the apple tree. "Fire, light!" he said, tossing it into the fireplace. A cheery fire lit.

"How long does it take to boil eggs?" Charmain asked, holding one up to the light as though looking for flaws.

"Depends," said Peter. "Not long, I think. I'd rather fried, myself."

"Well, I want soft-boiled eggs."

"_I _want _fried _eggs!"

"That's too bad!" Charmain flounced to the cupboard and poured some boiling water into a pot. "I'mmaking _boiled _eggs."

She tossed about four eggs in, then set the pot on the fire. "I'll be back in a minute. I'm going to get dressed. You watch the eggs."

"No," said Peter crossly. "_I'm _going to get dressed. _You _watch the eggs."

Naturally, both of them stomped away to their rooms, and neither of them made sure the eggs were cooking properly.

The two of them came back into the kitchen ten minutes later, fully dressed. Peter sniffed the air curiously. "It stinks in here!"

"Sulphur," said Charmain. She looked at the pot of eggs, and gasped. Tossing the eggs in, along with the sudden temperature change, had made all of the shells shatter, and bits of egg white and egg yolk were floating around in the water, which had half boiled away.

Peter dipped a spoon in and sipped, gingerly. He spat it out. "That's awful! If you'd been there to make sure they hadn't broken, we could be eating by now!"

"I _told _you I was going to get dressed! _You _should have been watching!" She tossed her plait over her shoulder and snatched Peter's spoon away. "And I'm sure it tastes fine, and you're just saying that it's bad to make me feel guilty." She swallowed a mouthful of egg-and-water.

Peter watched her face changing from smugness to shock to disgust. She ran to the sink and gulped water from that tap.

"That's vile!" she gasped. "Could you make fried eggs, do you think?"

Peter stuck his nose in the air. "Better than you can boil them."

Charmain sat down crossly. "Fine. I'll make the toast. It's impossible to get toast wrong, isn't it?"

It wasn't. Four of the slices were still cool; the other four were burnt to charcoal. Peter rolled his eyes. "Trust you to get it totally wrong, Charmain." He stuck the four cold pieces of bread back over the fire until they'd cooked a bit. "Put the eggs on some plates, would you?" he asked. "I'll butter the toast. You'd manage to get _that _wrong, too."

"I would not!" said Charmain angrily. "Fine. I'll put your stupid eggs on some plates."

It was less than two minutes before they had demolished the eggs, the toast, and two large glasses of water. Charmain sighed and leaned back, and then – with a furtive look at Peter – muttered something under her breath.

With a sudden mist, three vicious-looking pirates appeared by the table.

"Mutiny, me hearties!" shouted the tallest one, brandishing a cutlass.

"Arrrr!" yelled the one with more tattoos than skin.

"Mutiny!" bellowed the one wearing an eye-patch, and swung a hook-hand at the table.

It didn't make so much as a dent.

Peter looked at Charmain – with an innocent smile on her face – in complete bewilderment.

Charmain muttered something else, and the pirates all disappeared.

"I told you," she said smugly, "that there'd be mutiny if I didn't have breakfast soon."


	8. Chapter Eight

Author's Note: Well! I've decided to slip a little extra Peter/Charmain into this chapter. Whether it's a reward to you guys for reviewing (thanks!) or it's because I just felt like it, I hope you enjoy it.

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Chapter Eight

In Which Charmain and Peter Find a Use for the Ballroom

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After breakfast, Peter and Charmain went to the study to read for a while. Charmain felt a little uncomfortable that she had taken the cosiest chair, but Peter had insisted.

"You still have 'flu," he said, settling into the second-cosiest chair. "The symptoms are gone, but your body's still fighting the infection. The best thing to do is rest as much as you can."

She tossed her book aside. "But I don't _want _to rest! Can't we _do _something?"

"No," said Peter firmly, picking up his own book. "Anyway, you like reading."

"Well, yes," Charmain said, "but I don't feel like it at the moment. I want to _do _something!" She sighed and picked her book up again.

They kept reading until lunchtime, when Charmain closed her book and stood up. "I'm hungry," she said, "and I'm _not _going to read all the afternoon. I'm going to explore the house a little. Would you like to come?"

Peter nodded and put down his book. "How do omelettes sound for lunch?"

Charmain shuddered slightly. "I'll have turned into an egg by the time Great Uncle William gets back. Fine, omelettes it is."

After a mostly-satisfactory lunch, Charmain unfolded the short key to the house. "See, all this bit here is unexplored," she said, tracing her finger along a line. "I think you have to turn left at this door to get to the eastern bits."

Peter nodded thoughtfully. "That looks about right," he said. He put his elbows on the table to look closer. "Turn left through _this _door, then one step right, then two steps forward, then left through _that _door, then turn a full counter-clockwise circle to get _there_, and thenturn right and step forwards once." He extended an arm for Charmain to lean on. "Do come along, my dear," he said in his best imitation of Prince Ludovic's snobbish voice.

Charmain snorted, then stuck her nose in the air and rested her hand on his arm, trying to ignore the odd tingles she could feel in her fingers and her sudden nervousness. "It would be an honour, my lord," she said, mimicking Prince Ludovic's equally snobbish assistant. She snatched her hand away from his arm with a strange mixture of relief and gloom, and swept a deep curtsey. She leant on his arm again, feeling both terrified and elated, and grinned at him.

Peter grinned back nervously. He couldn't help feeling amused, scared, thrilled and shocked, all at once.

They managed to get to one of the many corridors before they had to open the map again. "Which door is it?" Charmain wondered.

Peter's hand quivered over the paper for a second. "That one," he said finally, pointing to the closest door.

Charmain stared at the paper again. "Actually, I think it's _that _one–" she started, but Peter had already gone through. She sighed and followed.

When they both came back into the light, they were nowhere near the room filled with teapots, which is where they should have been. Instead, they were in a very large, dusty room, with a huge chandelier and a parquet floor.

"The ballroom!" exclaimed Charmain.

Peter gaped.

The room was enormous and extremely grand. There were spider webs hanging from the chandelier, and there was only a little light as the windows were filthy, but the walls and ceiling were carved with the heavy, ornate patterns of an earlier age, and the vivid paint was hardly chipped or faded. The mirrors at either end of the ballroom, although spotted with age, were so tall that neither Peter nor Charmain could have touched the top of either of them, even if they were standing on the King's shoulders. There was gold leaf everywhere, almost as bright as when it was first applied. The two of them stood and stared – two lanky, simply-dressed young teenagers – and felt as though they had stumbled into somewhere from a hundred years before.

Charmain was the first to break the silence. "I feel as though I should be wearing a ballgown, don't you?" Her voice echoed eerily through the empty hall.

Peter laughed nervously. "I'm not sure a ballgown would suit me," he said. "But yes, I do feel rather underdressed." He looked around at the old-fashioned wall carvings, then bent down and touched the floor. "It's really slippery! How could they have danced on it without falling over?"

Charmain shook her head. "I don't know. But that gives me rather an excellent idea." She sat down and unbuttoned her boots.

Peter stared at her. "Why are you taking off your shoes?"

"Well, the floor's too slippery to even _walk_ in boots, and you need to learn how to dance," said Charmain smugly, slipping her feet out and standing up. She had decided to wear her second-oldest clothes that morning (her oldest being her horrid pink dress), and she was very glad she had.

Peter looked at her, aghast. "Are you joking? Me, dance? I don't know right from left!" He blushed and covered his eyes as Charmain started to take off her left stocking. "What are you doing? I – I don't want to learn to dance anyway!"

Charmain, standing on one leg and rolling down her stocking, tried vainly to keep her balance. "That's why I want to teach – argh!" She slipped slightly, tried to put her left foot down, and skidded a good three feet across the floor before toppling to the ground in a flash of white petticoat, red skirt, and flailing arms. She squeaked in surprise, sat up, pushed her unravelled hair out of her mouth and attempted to pull her skirt down a little to cover her knees properly – although it didn't work, as it was all twisted under her.

"That…" She squinted at her now-filthy hand and choked slightly. "That was fun!" She burst out into surprised laughter, as did Peter, once he'd managed to look away from her legs.

"You – you looked like a baby giraffe!" Peter laughed. "All limbs, and no idea where to put them."

Charmain looked mildly affronted. "I'd like to see you look less clumsy! It's like skating on a mattress."

Peter bent down to unlace his boots. "All right. I'll try. But–" he thought for a second, and continued "–if I manage to slide more elegantly than you did, you have to organise dinner for tonight, _and _you have to sort out all the books in my room. _Without _reading them."

Charmain laughed and shook her rust-red hair out of her face, and reached backwards to re-tie it into its everyday plait. "And if _I _slide more elegantly than _you_, you have to darn, patch, wash and fold allmy torn petticoats. Then give them back; I don't trust you to put them away properly. And _then _you have to tidy the books in _my _room."

They shook hands. "Deal."

Unbeknownst to them when they decided on them, they had both chosen a punishment that would rather appeal to the other.

Charmain and Peter were, naturally enough, curious about each other's room – after Charmain had nosed around that one time, with extremely embarrassing consequences, they had decided to fit locks on their doors and prohibit anybody except themselves going inside. It had been almost a month, and they both wondered rather whether the other's room had changed.

Charmain, in addition to her curiosity about Peter's bedroom, wanted to see what she could make with about two dozen eggs, half a loaf of bread, a fair amount of butter, and a couple of leftover apples.

Peter, who was moderately good at plain sewing, actually rather enjoyed it. He was also decidedly interested in Charmain's undergarments, for no particular reason that he would admit to.

It was hard to tell whether they were trying to win or trying to lose. Neither of them was especially clumsy when walking normally, but sliding on a wooden floor, either in socks or stockings, is difficult. However, while they were also trying to skid further and fall harder than the other, they almost seemed to be exaggerating their windmilling arms and shocked expressions, attempting to outdo each other in their ungainliness.

It was an hour before they were exhausted enough to stop. They were both covered in dust, and they were laughing ecstatically, uncomfortably sprawled on the floor. Charmain had somehow gotten a cobweb in her hair, which had fallen out of its plait so many times that she had eventually decided to leave it loose, and Peter – in a particularly impressive tumble – had managed to rip half the buttons off his shirt. They had scrapes and bruises on every exposed piece of skin, and tears on every piece of clothing. It hurt to move.

Eventually, they managed to calm down enough to stand up. Charmain looked down at her blouse and burst out laughing again. Her blouse, which had been white when she'd put it on, was now a dirty grey-brown, the sleeves had torn past the cuff-buttons and up to the elbows, and the shoulder seams had split.

She then looked sideways at Peter, and went almost into hysterics, laughing so hard that her eyes watered and made tracks down the dust on her face.

Peter was confused. "What's so funny?" he asked, looking down his front. Admittedly, half his buttons were missing, and his dark blue trousers had tears at the hem and knee, but he didn't look half so ridiculous as Charmain did, with the cobweb in her hair like some ridiculous hat.

Charmain gasped for breath. "The seam!" she wheezed, "on your trousers!"

Peter turned around to look at his back. Indeed, the seam at the back of his trousers had completely split, and his spotted undergarments were revealed, although so covered in dust that the original pattern was obscured.

Charmain collapsed again at the look on Peter's face. "I'm sorry!" she gasped. "I really am! But it's so funny!" She broke down in hysterical giggles.

Peter mustered up as much dignity as he could, which wasn't much. "Fine," he said stiffly. "You win. I'll darn your stupid petticoats."

Charmain managed to stop giggling with a very unladylike wheeze. "No, no," she said with a smile, although still gasping for breath slightly. "I think I was definitely clumsier, although you look a lot sillier. Remember, I managed to tumble head-over-heels for a good two yards that one time."

Peter chuckled and pulled her to her feet. "That's true. But I skidded at _least _three yards on my stomach a few times."

Charmain ignored the infuriating flutters in her stomach that always seemed to turn up when Peter touched her in any way. "So should we declare it a tie?" she asked, dropping his hands as though they burned.

"I suppose," said Peter thoughtfully, ignoring those self-same flutters. "But did we both win or did we both lose?"

Charmain contemplated for a second. "I actually do want to cook dinner tonight," she said. "So, if you don't mind a bit of darning, perhaps we both lost."

"That sounds all right," said Peter, shaking her hand quickly.

It took them a lot longer than they had thought it would to find their way back to the kitchen. Even though Peter insisted on walking behind Charmain ("So I know which way to go," he said, although it was really because he didn't want her seeing his underwear), they managed to make a few wrong turns, possibly because they were both exhausted. Indeed, they managed to make their way to the stables before they realised they'd gone the wrong way.

As soon as they had reached the warm, sunny kitchen, they both collapsed in the chairs. Charmain touched her wrist lightly. "Time," she said.

She looked at Peter sleepily. "It's only twenty-one minutes to four," she said. "I'm going to have a bath, and then I'll have a nap, and then dinner."

"That sounds fine, but I'm going to have a nap first." said Peter. "Then a bath."

Charmain looked at him, appalled. "But you'll get your bedclothes all dirty!"

He shrugged again. "I don't mind in the slightest. I need a rest."

Charmain sighed. "Fine. But I'm not washing your sheets." She walked towards the door and, resting her hand on the handle, turned back to Peter. "Oh, and by the way?" she said in her most sugary voice.

"What?" demanded Peter. He knew that whenever she used that voice, he wasn't going to like what she had to say.

"I'd suggest darning your trousers, too." And, with a sweet smile, she opened the door, walked into the living room, pushed the door open again and turned left to the corridor with bedrooms and a bathroom.

Peter stared after her. "You vicious, bossy little _cat_!" he said loudly.

A quiet giggle was his only answer.


	9. Chapter Nine

Author's Note: What a long day Peter and Charmain are having! Anyway, this is the last of their Saturday. However, we'll just have to see what Sunday brings for our two accidental mischief-makers...

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Chapter Nine

In Which There Is Trouble With Baths

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Peter had been mostly asleep for the hour that Charmain was having a bath. In between two very confusing dreams – both involving running water of some kind – he woke up and thought that he had really better get out of bed. However, he dozed off before he could even finish the thought.

Finally, around five in the afternoon, he woke up properly, and was disconcerted to still hear the sounds of running water from across the corridor.

He hammered on the bathroom door. "Charmain!" he hollered. "How long are you going to be in there? It's been an hour!"

There was no answer except a trickling wetness under his feet. "Oh, help," he muttered, and banged on the door again. "The bath's overflowed, you idiot! Turn off the taps!" He didn't dare use a spell to dry up the water, so he just stood there with his feet getting steadily wetter.

The water had trickled past his feet and was making its way to the bedroom doors before Peter ran to find cloths to mop it up. "Oh, Charmain!" he panted as he ran. "What did you do?"

Unknown to him, Charmain had managed to fall completely asleep after turning on the taps and getting into the bath. It was fortunate that it had a high back that she could lean against, or she might well have drowned. As it was, she had been too deeply asleep to notice the water spilling over the edges of the bath, or to hear Peter's frantic hammering on the door.

In fact, she didn't wake up until she heard Peter yelling again. "Charmain, _turn off the taps_ or I'll put _worms _in your bed!"

Charmain loathed worms. The idea of them worked its way into her subconscious mind, and she shuddered and opened her eyes.

"Oh, no," she gasped. She quickly turned off the taps and yelled, "Water, dry up! Now!"

It worked.

Charmain lay back in the now half-empty bath with a sigh. She reached for the soap and scrubbed herself clean as thoroughly as she could, ignoring Peter's annoyed sighs, hammering on the door and, eventually, his snores.

Charmain got out after another hour of scrubbing, drained out the now greyish water and wrapped herself in a warm towel. She poked her clothes with a reluctant toe. They were completely unwearable. It was fortunate that Peter had fallen asleep and would not see her dressed only in a towel. She took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.

Peter had indeed fallen asleep. However, most of the doors in Wizard Norland's house were creaky, and the bathroom door was no exception.

"Finally!" was the first thing he said. "I thought you'd be all day!"

Charmain, shocked, let her towel fall.

Charmain was very lucky. Her hair was long enough to cover most of her upper chest, and she managed to catch the towel before it dropped below her hips. Nevertheless, Peter definitely saw more than Charmain wanted him to see, or at least more than she would ever admit she wanted him to see.

Peter's eyes went very wide. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, stammered something and stared at the floor with as much intensity as he could muster.

Charmain squeaked, clutched her towel around herself and ran for her bedroom.

She reached under her bed for a diary that she only wrote in when she could remember where she'd put it and when she needed to express her feelings in writing. As with many diaries, it was completely empty except for Charmain's name on the front page, with 'OPEN AND DIE!' scrawled beneath it, 'I hate Alexandra Black, she's such a pig, it was horrid of her to call me a book-loving maggot-faced idiot,' with a crude sketch of Alexandra with a pig's nose, and 'I wish I was as good at music as Charlotte is'. She opened to a new page and chewed on the end of her quill for a second before writing.

_What to do when a boy who is a friend and _('and', as well as the next few words on that line were scribbled out; all were unreadable except for 'and') _sees you in a towel and nothing else_

_- Panic_

_- Pretend it never happened_

_- Laugh it off_

_- Change the subject if he brings it up_

_- Hide_

_- _(This suggestion was crossed out)

_- Refuse to give him dinner until he promises never to mention it again_

_- ???_

Charmain sighed and shut the book, ignoring the ink spreading to the next page. Making a list hadn't helped much.

Peter finished his bath a lot quicker than Charmain had, but didn't leave the bathroom. Instead, he began to mentally compile a list much like hers.

_What to do when you see the girl you _(there he stopped this thought, and continued) _when you see a girl you are _friends _with only wearing a towel_

_- Panic_

_- Pretend it never happened_

_- Change the subject if she brings it up_

_- Hide_

_- HELP!_

Peter breathed deeply, looked out into the corridor to check that Charmain wasn't outside the bathroom. Wrapping his towel neatly around his waist, he darted into his room without stopping to mop up the wet footprints he'd left on the floor.

They both came down in their most ridiculously modest clothes, the ones they usually reserved for visiting grandparents, and sat in the living room. Any other day, they would have laughed at each other, but they were far, far too embarrassed to even look at each other, let alone laugh. Although they were both reading, neither of them could concentrate on the page, so acutely aware were they of each other's presence. Charmain managed to read a whole chapter without taking any of it in.

It was Peter who spoke first. "Um, dinner?" he said, his voice cracking slightly.

"All right," said Charmain. "Fried eggs?" She blushed scarlet suddenly, remembering a comment a schoolmate had made about her figure. "I mean, um, scrambled. Or custard, or something." They had, after many trays of half-rotten food, managed to get some un-spoilt milk, some sugar, and a single vanilla pod.

Peter didn't notice her blush – or, if he did, he didn't say so. "That sounds fine. Do you need me to help you?"

Charmain shook her head. "No, no, I'll be fine." She fled to the kitchen.

Peter tried as hard as he could to concentrate on _The Twelve-Branched Wand_, but the clattering and occasional swearing coming from the kitchen. A loud crash decided him.

"What's going on in here?" he asked. A chair had been overturned, a pot was on the fire, and Charmain was red with exertion, heat and irritation.

"The custard has lots of lumps," she said. "And the scrambled eggs are hard."

Peter firmly took the stirring spoon away from her. "The scrambled eggs are hard because you cooked them too long. And the custard is lumpy because you didn't separate the yolks from the whites properly. You're only meant to use the yolk for custard."

Charmain picked the chair up and sat down crossly. "Well, I'm sorry, Mister I-Know-Everything-About-Cooking, but it didn't say either of that in the book. Let's just eat."

They spent a sullen ten minutes picking over their scrambled eggs, which their forks didn't even bounce off properly, and an even more sullen five minutes picking lumps out of their custard. They were both embarrassed, and were, by then, too sulky even to ask each other for salt and pepper. They stalked away from the table without washing their dishes.

They read half-heartedly in their rooms for another two hours before they both got sick of being grumpy. They walked into each other in the corridor when they were heading to each other's room to apologise.

"Ouch," said Charmain, rubbing her elbow. "Sorry."

"Me too," replied Peter, rubbing his forearm. "Listen, about before–" he started, but Charmain interrupted.

"Ugh, I was such an idiot. I knew I should have gotten dressed again."

"No, no, our clothes were filthy. It's really not a problem."

"It is, kind of. I'm sorry my towel slipped; I didn't think you were still in the hallway."

"No, don't worry. I'm sorry – I mean – I didn't see anything, but sorry."

"That's all right."

"Friends again?"

"Yes."

They turned back to their respective bedrooms, much relieved, and went to sleep.


End file.
